


When Drowning is Another Kind of Living

by shealynn88



Category: The Guardian (2006)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake won't ever let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Drowning is Another Kind of Living

**Author's Note:**

> There has been some minor timeline modification. This assumes that the call that Ben heard on his beeper when he was giving his wife the signed divorce papers doesn't actually happen until the next morning. And that's all you need to know.

Jake watches the Master Chief leave, and the old man never looks back. Not once.

He pushed them to the edge and dragged them back. He forced them to work harder than they'd ever thought possible. He taught them not to give up. 

And then he faltered, just once, and now he's quitting. It makes everything he taught them a well-played lie.

Jake hits the bar and orders himself a beer. And then another.

He loses count at six, and each one feeds the fury that's burning just beneath his skin.

Jake convinces some guy who's headed in the right direction to give him a ride. He gets dropped off on the main road and walks the rest of the way. It's a hell of a long walk in the cold, but he's learned not to care. After all, according to the Master Chief, eighty percent of his life now will be spent hypothermic. Why not start now?

He pounds on the door until it threatens to come off its hinges, and he's about to help it when Randall finally answers.

"Oh. It's you." Randall leaves the door open and wanders back to the long seat below the kitchen window. He takes a sip of whiskey as Jake closes the door.

Jake had a speech ready. It was eloquent and angry and now, between the beer and the cold and the long ride over here, he's forgotten it. He stalks forward and his fists clench at his sides. He wants to tear the glass from Randall's hand and toss it across the room. 

He doesn't. 

"How can you just bail like that?" he finally manages.

Randall lifts the glass and chuckles. "You and me, we're the same, but you're at the beginning, Goldfish. You're at the beginning and I'm at the end."

"So that's it, huh? You're giving up? After everything you beat into us for eighteen weeks, you're just _giving up?_ "

Randall waves a hand vaguely and takes another drink. "Whatda you know? You're just a kid."

Something snaps inside him and Jake stalks forward, leaning in. "And you're a washed up has-been!"

Randall slams his drink down on the side table and his eyes are suddenly sharp. He grabs a fistful of Jake's shirt and drags him forward and down until they're eye to eye. His breath is 150 proof. "I hurt from the moment I get out of bed til the moment I get back in again. I dream of fire every day and I'm damn tired. I got scars inside and out that make me look like a god-damn crazy quilt." He yanks up the edge of his shirt and Jake glances down at a wide scar. "Maybe this makes me a has-been. And maybe it makes me someone who's earned his damn retirement. But you, Goldfish…you're not the one who gets to make that call." He lets go carefully, and it's proof that he's drunk. 

Jake doesn't move—he's three inches from his mentor's face and he's looking for a fight. He slides long fingers down over the older man's shirt until he finds the scar. He takes his time tracing it.

The Master Chief grabs his hand. "Get out of here," he hisses.

"No," Jake says, setting his jaw and refusing to move. He won't let Randall allow himself to be conquered by the sea he's ruled for so long. He won't let Randall be the first one he loses. "I'm not leaving."

Randall laughs. "Here's another lesson for you, Goldfish. Doesn't come up often for the Guard, but here it is: you can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved. You'll lose every damn time. And the people who need you? They'll get washed away while you're trying."

"No!" Jake leans closer, freeing his hand and digging his fingers into ribs that have been broken and splintered and cobbled back together. Randall gasps in pain. "No," Jake repeats. "I don't accept that." He flattens his hand over a pattern of scars and traces them up over Randall's sternum. The Master Chief gasps again, softly, and raises one calloused hand to still Jake's.

Jake smells whiskey and sea salt and then its on his tongue as they crash together. He's rolled under, tumbled and battered, and all he tastes is the ocean. His heart thumps in his ears and there's a rushing that sounds like waves and air and the quiet chaos of being underneath a storm. He doesn't know which way is up, and he's not sure if he's got hold of Randall or if it's the other way around.

He drops to his knees and presses forward, his fingers clenching as he fights to get closer, to get a firmer hold. He's in no hurry to break the surface. He can hold his breath for as long as it takes.

He won't let go.

Randall fights back, biting at his lip and jaw and then tipping him back until they both hit the floor. Randall's hands move roughly under Jake's shirt, digging into the smooth flesh that hides his deepest scars.

"Damn it, Jake," Randall growls into his neck.

"Don't give up," Jake whispers, and then Randall's mouth is crushing his and it's impossible to fight as Randall drags him down. 

He holds his breath.

Randall yanks Jake's shirt over his head, and then his own, and before Jake can find his bearings his mentor crashes against him again. It feels like the weight of the future is behind that scarred body as it presses him into the rough-hewn wood of the floorboards.

They battle and press and claw until there's nothing between them but skin and stuttering breath, and Jake drags Randall to the surface with hands that are quick and careful between them. 

Randall stiffens and warmth spills thick over Jake's fingers. Randall relaxes and Jake thinks he's won, and then he's rolled over and dragged under again.

Seconds drag into minutes as Randall presses into him; he'd cry out, but he refuses to show weakness.

It feels like drowning—at last he claws for breath and chokes and gasps. And then everything melds into a tension that aches and then screams along every muscle and finally bursts into something that's more intensity than pain or pleasure.

He feels Randall's breath sharp against his ear and it's like they've washed ashore soaked in sweat and salt, fingers still intertwined, scars sea-scalded and raw.

He aches like he's back in training and it's that first day of treading water and not knowing.

Finally, Randall pulls at his arm. "Come on," he says in a jagged whisper. "This old man needs to sleep."

They stumble into the bed and their limbs tangle, and Jake has a moment to smile in victory before he succumbs to exhaustion.

***

Jake's beeper wakes him, and it takes him a second to remember where he is. When he rolls over, Randall is wincing and stretching his arms carefully over his head. When he catches Jake watching him, he raises an eyebrow. "You gonna get out there, or what?"

Jake slides out from under the sheets. "Are you?"

He feels the Master Chief's eyes on him as he scrambles into his clothes. 

"Nope," Randall says, tossing him his beeper from the side of the bed. "Time for _you_ to be the miracle."

Jake turns at the door. "Master Chief—"

Randall laughs. "I'm a civvie, now, Jake. Call me Ben."

He doesn't want to say it. It feels like conceding defeat. 

But he knows he won't stop coming back. He knows that he won't let go. "Ben. This isn't over."

His mentor smiles. "Not for you it's not." He nods his head toward the door. "Go on. They need you out there."

* * *

He loves Emily, but there are some things he won't share. He tries not to let on how dangerous his job is, and he never tells her about Randall.

He never tells her how long and how hard he held on. He never tells her how deep the scar runs where Randall let go. 

In the end, Jake thinks, they saved each other. It wasn't the way he intended, but it's all he'll ever get. 

He tries to take his mentor's advice and concentrate on the ones the sea hasn't taken yet.

But he keeps his secrets, and when Emily asks about the extra '2' on his shoulder, settled next to the first one like it belongs there, he shrugs and says it's a reminder.

She doesn't press and he doesn't elaborate.

It's not a record to break. It's just a reminder of what's really important.

Of all the scars he gains over the years, that one—of ink and time and a man who believed in him—that one is the one that drives him, every day, into the water and back out again.


End file.
